Authors: Heidi Ayarbe
I laugh, glossing over the article about Caleb because the whole thing gives me a sick-stomach feeling. My head hurts. I’m now downing as much Mylanta as 7Up.
Saturday morning, we convened an emergency Sanctuary for round three of March Madness bets—last round before Sweet Sixteen. I had over twenty guys come to place bets and moan about the upsets all around. Duke lost to Tennessee, PSU destroyed Northwestern, and U-Dub came out from under Gonzaga’s shadow,
my Huskies
, who barely made the bubble, and won in a miracle shot.
Maybe miracles
do
happen.
I won another five hundred dollars.
Five hundred dollars
. Josh and I won almost seven hundred dollars. Everything was right—just right. We left money at Luis Sanchez’s house in an envelope and donated to the foundation Brain Food.
I’ve had to make ridiculous excuses not to hang out with Marilyn. Finally, on Sunday, I told her I had to pay attention to the games. “After March Madness, I can shop till I drop.”
“When does this end?” She sounded bored with the whole madness thing.
“Two more weeks,” I said. “Then it’s all over.”
That seemed to appease her.
I close my eyes and replay the Huskies’ final basket—miracle three-pointer, corner shot over Gonzaga’s defense. I have a moment of invincibility—the “forever” Josh talks about. Peace.
Still.
That’s all I want. To be still.
I watch the rise of Babylonia—how betting and Babylonia have overshadowed normal high school stuff. We’re all kids can talk about. In Mrs. B’s class, Sumi and Dawn did an entire six-word memoir, “Ode to Babylonia.”
It was freakish.
Nobody’s talking about next week’s Aloha Dance
—
a lame attempt by the student council to make up for the ski trip debacle. They can’t afford anything big, so they’re having it in the gym.
March 22.
Tickets. Ten dollars for those who don’t have their original ski passes. I think that’s supposed to be some kind of compensation for the sixty dollars the other kids blew. Trinity, Callie, and the other student-council members rotate ticket sales, but their stack of tickets doesn’t look like it’s going down at all. The dance isn’t going to be too big a hit.
Maybe kids just don’t want to hang out together. Maybe they feel more comfortable in their little social circles that intersect like one of those Venn diagrams, only when they’re instructed to do a group assignment together.
Nim walks by with a group of friends, his arm wrapped around Trinity’s shuddering shoulders. Medusa wears a painted smile, like she’s totally okay with her boyfriend hugging another girl.
The pit returns. The hole in my stomach can’t seem to be filled anymore—I get just momentary bursts of release, then the familiar burn.
In Mrs. B’s class, Moch shows up late, handing her a tardy slip. “Good to see you, Mocho,” Mrs. B says.
Trinity stands to leave. “I won’t be in the same room as
him
.”
Moch’s face turns ashen gray.
“Sit down, Miss Ross, and cut the drama.” Mrs. B clears her throat. “Listen . . .” Her tone of voice softens. “We’ve talked about violence and what’s going on with Caleb and I know he’s hurting right now. But these kinds of outbursts and accusations really don’t do anything but exacerbate the problems.”
“Exacerbate the problem? That my boyfriend was
stabbed at school
by
his
best friend—” She points at Moch, ugly, angry fingers ready to place blame. “You call that, quote-unquote, exacerbate the problem?”
Mrs. B sighs.
“Distorted mirrors. Filtered memories. Everyone’s guilty,” I say, interrupting the debate.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Trinity says, and glares. Her eyes are puffy and red. Is it possible she doesn’t know who Caleb is?
Or maybe I don’t know him, either. She certainly doesn’t know Moch. How could she know he spent an entire summer interviewing every person in our neighborhood to put together his first newspaper? He called it
Twenty Minutes.
The idea was that after twenty minutes, you could pretty much
know
someone.
Trinity, Caleb, Mocho, and I have gone to school together for ten years. We
still
don’t know each other.
Trinity glares. “Well?”
“It’s just a memoir,” I say.
“I have one,” says Moch. He pulls out a crumpled page and says, “Bloodied bats. Bloodied knives. Same. Same.”
Trinity’s face does this really unattractive pinchy, raisin thing. She turns a reddish color and collapses to her chair, sobs coming out.
Yeah. She knows Caleb.
I know Moch.
But I can’t believe they’re the same guy. Moch
stopped
Comba. Caleb, though, held the bat.
For the first time it occurs to me that Mrs. B could collect all our memoirs, give them to a court of law, and they’d have a pretty solid case against anyone in this classroom.
The loudspeakers interrupt the weird silence—spitting news and information at us. We’re all called out for an emergency assembly.
I can’t help but notice the hallways smell like cinnamon Trident. Some kids wear Babylonia T-shirts—the symbol we used on the ski trip invitation.
Josh catches up to me as we walk through the gymnasium doors. “Un-freaking-believable.”
“No kidding.”
“I’d never thought of the merchandising aspect of the whole thing,” I say, half smiling.
Josh squeezes my arm.
We. Are. Babylonia.
Josh and I shuffle into the gym, working our way up to an empty area in the bleachers. I hear somebody
moo
and look around to see Nim laughing. He winks at me.
I can’t believe it. I’m still a joke to him. The sound of Principal Holohan picking up the mic, its screechy feedback, thunders in my ears.
“Sit down!” some junior ROTC kid says, motioning me to sit. “Yeah. You!”
Josh tugs on my hand. It’s like everything I’ve done doesn’t matter because nobody knows. They’re all looking at me as if I were yesterday.
I. Am. Babylonia.
Principal Holohan stands in the middle of the gym with Police Chief Dominguez. He takes the mic and says, “I’m here to talk to you about Babylonia.”
Cheers and whistles fill the gym; then kids begin to whisper, “Babylonia, Babylonia, Babylonia.” Hundred of voices whispering. The words, first like scattered raindrops, connect together, floating over our heads, filling the gym, growing like a tidal wave crashing on a shoreline. They get softer again and recede back out to sea. “Babylonia.”
The gym goes silent, leaving Police Chief Dominguez drenched in sweat—the unforgiving fluorescent bulbs burning overhead. “There are two very confused individuals who believe taking the law into their own hands causes a lot of good.”
“It does!” somebody shouts.
“Do not interrupt. I will
not
ask you again.”
The gym settles into uncomfortable silence. It feels like Dominguez is looking right at me. Josh slips his hand into mine and I squeeze it. Hard. Not even worried about the fact it’s way past clammy-gross and moving toward corpselike waxy.
“These burglars are dangerous. They’ve already shown they’re fearless. And every single Tweet, status update—every time they’re mentioned—we are tracking you. Don’t think Anonymous is all that anonymous. I’m here to tell you that this is not a game. This is not a fad, like some rubbery animal-shaped things you put on your wrist. These individuals are
breaking the law
, and they will be prosecuted. Nevada burglary, as defined in NRS 205.060, is one of the toughest laws in the country. If you want to be a burglar, Nevada’s not the place to do it. It’ll get you ten years in the pen.
“We will bring them to justice. And they will do time.”
“Yeah, just like la Cordillera!” somebody shouts. I look around to see who shouted, but everybody’s looking around at everybody, so it’s hard to tell. I turn back to see Moch. He and everybody else sitting around him are wearing sunglasses. But if they know who shouted it, that kid’s dead.
“We are well aware of the problems of gang violence in Carson City. As well as a new wave of militia groups targeting certain members of our community. I’m here to talk about Babylonia, the trickle-down effect of vigilantism, and how it affects our community, our safety. It is
not a game
.
“That said, we are offering substantial reward money to anybody who can lead us to the perpetrators of these crimes. Because we have reason to believe these felons are young, possibly even members of this school community, I wanted to address the high school personally. I want you all to know that whoever is behind these burglaries will not be doing them for much longer. Mark my word. Any questions?”
At least half the study body raises their hands.
“Why do you think they’re dangerous?”
“They already left a seven-year-old bruised and incredibly shaken up,” Dominguez says. “To keep her from screaming.”
I think about how hard I held her, squeezing her in my hands.
“It’s larceny. It’s dangerous. And these burglars have no social agenda except to themselves. They’re a couple of punks on a joyride—one that’s going to end badly.” Dominguez wipes his forehead down with a white handkerchief. “Let me be clear about this. Burglars aren’t like you see in the movies. Hollywood has a beautiful way of romanticizing the most dangerous of things. These two could be drug addicts, part of a local gang—they’re only thinking about themselves.”
Josh’s hand is slick with sweat. He pulls it away and wipes it on his jeans, then grabs the tips of my fingers with his. It feels like my stomach has become Lucifer’s dwelling place. The sense of bigness and wonder that once filled the gym when they chanted our name feels silly, like we’re just going to become an afterthought.
Punks on a joyride
.
They’ve missed the point.
We’re dismissed.
Somebody jams into me. Nim grins. “
Mooo
,” he says, shooting me a look over his shoulder.
Can’t find yesterday’s me in today.
CASH REWARD OFFERED FOR BABYLONIA: 2K
THE POSTERS WENT UP
overnight—like some kind of Christo building wraps, inside out.
TAKE THE COMMUNITY BACK!
BABYLONIA = ANTI-AMERICAN
GARBAGE DISPOSAL DOING WHAT LAW ENFORCEMENT CAN’T
WHO’S NEXT? ARE YOU? ARE YOU PREPARED?
By the end of first block most posters have been taken down. But the hate lingers.
Nim comes up to me at lunchtime. “Sanctuary today?”
“No,” I say, sipping on my staple beverage, 7Up.
He raises his eyebrows.
“I’m going to a funeral.” I stare at him. He wasn’t holding the bat but he was cheering Caleb on.
I didn’t do anything.
I’m doing it now. Luis’s family doesn’t have to pay for that funeral. I can’t begin to fathom what that medical bill looks like. He was hospitalized for weeks.
“So?” Nim’s stupid, thug-head, unevolved self asks. “When?”
“For you? Never.”
“Christ, Mike, what’s this all about? That Babylonia shit? Those guys are total losers. You’re a bookie. Since when do you give a shit about . . . about anything but the bet?”
“Take your business somewhere else.” Now even 7Up burns going down.
“And half my guys.”
“Be my guest.”
“Fuck you, you dumb cow.”
The only saving grace of Tuesday is when Josh texts me:
You’re worth WAY more than 2K.
I read it three times, then erase it.
It’s been too long. I have the itch. The nights are the worst. I’m too tired to do anything but lie down on the bed and think. I think about Mrs. Mendez and Moch; Luis Sanchez and Caleb. I wish I could be thinking about proms and dances and graduation and U-Dub.
But all I can think about is the next hit, the next bet, the next win.
It’s hard to balance a life of burglary and guilt with midterms. It’s no wonder this stuff never gets into the yearbook.
My phone beeps:
Ready?
Exhale.
I listen for Lillian. She’s been asleep a long time. At dinner she decided to do the “involved” thing and ask about Josh and friends and when was I going shopping again. Finally, after dancing around the subject for what seemed like eternity, she blurted, “Are you using protection?”
I felt a great relief. She’s worried about me getting pregnant. Something so basic, so normal.
After nearly choking on my Tuna Helper, I assured her that I wasn’t having sex but would definitely use protection. She seemed happy—like we’d had a moment, we’d overcome a huge obstacle in the parent-child relationship.
I leave the house and meet Josh at the end of the block.
“How are we going to get past without tripping the alarm?” I ask.
Josh smiles, hands me the drill. “It doesn’t work. It’s for show.” He points to the alarm business name. “They’ve been out of business for several years.”
I shake my head and mutter, “Rookies. Cover your eyes.” Sometimes people think a flashy sticker will work. For a normal burglar, probably. Normal burglars, though, probably don’t break into building-supply offices.
I drill into the keyhole—the shrill sound of metal on metal screechy and loud.
Really loud
. I don’t stop, though, until I can feel the bit hit something. Curls of metal drift to the floor.
Josh hands me a screwdriver. I wiggle it until I hear the pins and springs fall out, then go back and drill again, repeating until the screwdriver turns, acting like a key. “Open sesame,” I say.
Josh sweeps his hand in front. “After you.”
We walk down the narrow corridor and kick in a flimsy aluminum door to the main floor of the supply house. The place smells like mechanic oil and metal, a faint whiff of oil-soaked sawdust.
Mottled light seeps through greasy garage doors. It’s like piecing together a puzzle—giving shapes to the shadowy figures, finding the nuance in the spectrum of grays. Lights from big trucks stretch through the high garage-door windows, caressing the walls, a light show for a moment until the trucks pass, the darkness wrapping us in its million grays again. The office is upstairs—a glass room perched like an aquarium, with a view of the warehouse and building yard.